


Like Ice Is Cold

by gloss



Category: DC Comics: Young Justice
Genre: F/F, F/M, Pegging, Queer Het, Rimming, het_idcrack
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-07-02
Updated: 2010-07-02
Packaged: 2017-10-10 08:40:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,511
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/97774
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gloss/pseuds/gloss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tim experiments, Cassie gets frustrated; or, two queer kids give heterosexuality a whirl.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Like Ice Is Cold

**Author's Note:**

> For [](http://www.livejournal.com/users/het_idcrack/profile)[**het_idcrack**](http://www.livejournal.com/users/het_idcrack/). Thanks to [](http://jubilancy.dreamwidth.org/profile)[**jubilancy**](http://jubilancy.dreamwidth.org/), who, a long time ago, gave me a key to characterizing Cassie.

"Who do you think you are?" Cassie shoves Mr. Sarcastic against the wall. If she could just push hard enough to release the pressure building in her head, she might be okay. She shakes him by the shoulders. "Answer me."

"Harder," he says. He wriggles in her grip and smirks. "C'mon, you're stronger than that. Give it to me."

Cassie goes still. She doesn't relent, but she resists the urge to tighten her grasp.

"Oh," he says and frowns. He sounds sad, almost mournful. "Guess not. Guess you're not all that Wonderful after all."

Weight back on her left leg, switch-grip from right to left, and she's got her forearm across his throat and palm on his solar plexus.

His breath comes fast, shallow and harsh.

"How about now?" she asks and eases off, just enough for him to lick his lip and take a deeper breath.

His eyes are glittery. "Eh, I've felt stronger."

She knows he's messing with her. She *knows*, so why is it working?

"Really?" She trades the throat press for both hands on his waist -- skinny as a *girl's*, wow -- and flips him feet first over her shoulder. He lands on his ass, his designer jeans splitting, the mat resounding with the impact. Cassie turns an aerial and drops atop him, straddling his hips. "How about now?"

The glitter in his eyes sharpens. He bites his lip as if he needs to think, then looks her right in the eye. "Now's good."

"Yeah?" She's breathing harder than she ought to. She isn't exactly exerting herself here, so there's no reason that the air is scraping in and out and her chest is this tight.

"Could be better, of course –" he adds and, somehow, *stretches* in her hold, like his joints have popped open, his tendons pulled loose as taffy.

Sweat has gathered at his temples, in the hollows under his jaw amid the stubble.

Her training is excellent. She could touch the cluster of nerves at the base of his throat and make him spasm for hours on end. She could snap him in two. She could do *anything*.

But that's just it.

Warriors excel when they avoid violence: Diana might as well be standing over them, her voice comes so clear through Cassie's mind.

Her elbows begin to buckle.

His smirk starts to curl up.

"Oh my god, are you guys wrestling?" Bart's voice barely beats him across the room; his squeal, the breeze of his approach, and half a second later, the warm weight of his body, all crash into her. Cassie pulls away, off Sarcastic's hips. "Lemme in! I want in!"

"All yours," she tells Bart. "I'm running late."

"Do hurry home to Mumsy!" Sarcastic calls before the door bangs shut behind her. "Mustn't break curfew!"

*

"Two minutes to spare," her mother says when Cassie opens the apartment door. "You're really cutting it close lately, aren't you?"

Her face heats up, her chest constricts, and all Cassie can do is duck her head as she heads for her room. She doesn't trust herself to speak.

Juggling Young Justice, regular work alone and with Diana, *and* being a civilian isn't exactly easy. Her mom is just waiting for her to slip up.

In a lot of ways, the others have it easier. All they have to do is be heroes. Anything extra is their choice. Sure, Tim has a family (she thinks), but they don't know about his vocation.

When Cassie does screw up, her mother's going to be right there to take back her powers and lock her down until she's at least eighteen.

*

On Monday, she uses English class to go over the YJ agenda, make some changes to the monthly budget, and draft a memo to the JLA regarding mentorship responsibilities. Her class only started King Lear last Thursday, so she figures she can use the time to catch up on everything else.

No such luck.

"Ms. Sandsmark? Thoughts?" Her teacher sits cross-legged on top of the table; the class is in a ring around the room, seminar-style. It is supposed to encourage thinking outside of the box and egalitarian communication. Cassie just thinks it sucks, because there's nowhere to hide.

Case in point. She straightens up and closes her notebook. "Sorry. Could you repeat that?"

"Some critics have observed that the Fool and Cordelia are never on stage at the same time. They suggest that the role is a double one."

"Oh," Cassie says. She hasn't read past Act Two. "Well. Huh. That's pretty cool."

Ms. Ito squints at her before continuing, "Maureen just suggested that the Fool and Cordelia perform the same function, as truth-tellers to the king."

Across the circle, Maureen smirks a little. They fooled around last month, a couple times, and she seems to have had it in for Cassie ever since. She plants her chin on her hand and stares back at Cassie.

"Maybe so?" Cassie looks away from Maureen and addresses Ms. Ito. "I don't know. The Fool's kind of annoying, so --"

"He's the only one who tells the truth!" Maureen says. She's apparently really identifying with this guy. "He's got a unique status that allows him --"

"To spout nonsense and dumb riddles?" Cassie twirls her pen in her fingers. "Big deal. If he actually cared about *truth*, he'd just say it."

Maureen's cheeks are getting pinker and pinker. Under her brass-colored freckles, it's pretty cute. "If everyone said what they meant --"

"We wouldn't have English class," Ms. Ito says at the same time as Cassie says, "The world would be a lot simpler."

Maureen mutters something about "take your own advice", but the class is laughing at the teacher's bad joke.

If it weren't for some of the girls and science class, Cassie would much rather do all of this by correspondence. Or just test for her GED and be done with all of this.

*

She has to show her completed homework – three lab reports, one response essay, and her notes on finishing Lear – before her mother lets her go to New York for the weekend.

"It's not for *fun*," Cassie reminds her. "This is for work –"

One of Diana's diplomatic charities is holding a fundraising brunch. Cassie can't remember if it's for Nubia's girls' schools effort or Tibetan nuns in northern India. She just hopes that her mother doesn't ask.

Her mother glances up from Cassie's lab notebook. "Funny, most people don't think of what you do as work."

Cassie clasps her hands behind her back and flicks her index finger against her thumb until the sharp pain can make her think clearly. "You know what I meant. It's not like I'm going off just to have a good time."

Her mother's lips press together and thin out. She pushes Cassie's notebook away. "Oh, no, of course not. Sleeping over at Donna's and staying up till all hours like the world's best slumber party won't be fun at all."

Sometimes it's almost as if her mother's *jealous*. So weird. And gross.

*

The doorman at Donna's building calls up to announce her, but there's no answer.

"That's okay," Cassie says, and shows him her key and ID card. "I'll just let myself in."

She could use a shower and a nap. Her flight cross-country ran into an unexpected thunderstorm over Wisconsin and she still feels clammy. She ends up soaking in the deep, clawfooted tub until she dozes off, then wraps herself up in one of Donna's robes and pads into the guest room. She lies down, still robed, and pulls the quilt over herself.

Everything at Donna's is fresher, cleaner, a little *finer* than anywhere else. It makes sense: being around Donna makes you want to be your best. That must go for inanimate objects, too.

Sometime later, she wakes slightly when she hears voices in the master bedroom. Donna and Kory, laughing and messing around, some grunts and thumps of furniture shaking. Cassie grins, hugging the pillow to her chest, and turns over, back to sleep.

In the morning, she finds Kory in the kitchen, naked as anything, frying eggs and humming to herself. Six and a half feet of beautiful, copper woman, her hair caught up in a loose, messy braid down her back, she radiates her own light. Even her *feet* are beautiful, high arches and long, regular toes, as she dances a little. Cassie tugs her shirt and smooths back her hair. She's usually not self-conscious, but anyone short of Diana would be next to Kory.

"Morning!" Kory twirls to the fridge. "We got in late and didn't want to wake you."

"Anything interesting?" Cassie asks and helps herself to some eggs.

Kory's face squinches up. "Nasty arsonist, nothing difficult. Nightwing didn't even show up."

Donna appears in the doorway, wearing just a white slip. "We didn't need him."

Kory laughs. "We didn't *need* Arsenal, either."

"And yet..." Arsenal hugs Donna from behind, smacking a kiss on the top her head. "Morning, Blonde Wondy. Princess."

Cassie waves her fork at him, then concentrates on applying just the right amount of ketchup to her eggs while the three say goodbye. With hands and tongues.

It's weird – she's not this shy when it's just women. She can wrestle naked on Themyscira, bathe with Kory, dare Cissie to go skinny-dipping, whatever. But Arsenal – call me Roy, pretty thing, you're getting old enough – or any other guy is a whole different situation.

She tries to talk about it with Kory and Donna, but Kory puts her arm around Cassie and hugs her tight. Her scent, like patchouli and ambergris, makes Cassie's head swim, as Kory tells her there's nothing to worry about. Soon enough, apparently, she'll be finding her heart around men and then, well. Kory laughs again and winks at Donna. "And then, watch out, world!"

That's not exactly what Cassie wanted to hear.

*

At the brunch, she is more bored than she thought possible. She has attended plenty of these things, and surviving is just a matter of remembering to smile, asking yes/no questions in the receiving line so people don't linger, and looking like you're listening when you're really millions of miles away.

This reception, however, is the worst yet. Cassie wants to fidget throughout the speeches, even Diana's, and she can't help yawning when the food is finally served. Cold and rubbery chicken, soggy spinach, and a cheese sauce that looks suspiciously like one of Bart's concoctions; she's glad she ate at Donna's.

Three tables away, there's a girl her age looking at her. Dark-haired, tall, she rolls her eyes when Cassie meets her gaze. She smiles and tilts her head toward the bathroom.

"Excuse me," Cassie tells the table. They are absorbed in one of Diana's stories and no one notices her leave.

The girl's name is Kate, and they don't go to the bathroom, but upstairs to one of the parlors. Kate kicks off her shoes and collapses backward onto a settee to rub her foot. The shoes have left red welts and she groans, loudly, as she rubs.

"It's for a good cause and all, but, *Christ*, could people be any more pompous?" she asks.

Cassie drops next to her and takes Kate's foot into her lap. "I'm sure they'd be willing to try."

From there, it's a simple enough slide into flirting and touching. They start kissing when Cassie uses her line about deja vu, about already having kissed her, needing to test the memory.

Kate blinks rapidly, blushes, then kisses her open-mouthed and wetly.

"You're into archery?" Cassie asks, when they've been making out for a good long time. Kate's calluses as she strokes Cassie's neck make her want to moan and bite.

"Yeah," Kate says and lifts her gaze. "I'm getting pretty good."

"I've got a thing for archers," Cassie admits. She licks Kate's fingertip and thinks about arrows, the sleek taut line of the bow, the strength of the arm.

Kate laughs. "That's a pretty specific fetish."

Cassie shrugs and measures her hand against Kate's.

*

That afternoon, the weather turns gray and damp. Rather than shopping, Cassie and Donna stay in with a pile of movies and a few bags of vegetable chips. Cassie wouldn't say so, but it's nice to have Donna all to herself, and equally great not to be traipsing through boutique after boutique while shop assistants fall all over themselves to help Donna. Having to see herself from fourteen different angles while being ignored isn't exactly her idea of a good time.

These are the mean, petty thoughts that she tries to keep well under wraps. She suspects, however, that their venom can leak out when she's not aware of it. Maybe that's why things are so tough with Young Justice, why Superboy rolls his eyes every time she says something, why Bart acts out like a toddler, why Robin's pulling his – whatever it is he's pulling.

Why Cissie's never coming back to the team.

Donna is curled up on a loveseat, feet tucked behind her, while Cassie sits on the floor in front of her. Donna's fingers trail through Cassie's hair, combing and lifting, occasionally braiding it, then shaking it out. With the pearly light filtering in and the old romantic movies on the screen, Cassie feels about as relaxed as she thinks she might get. Not very relaxed, but much better than usual.

"It's like I don't know how to talk to them," Cassie admits. They're between movies and she has shifted around to rest her cheek on Donna's cushion. "I don't know what I'm doing wrong."

"You're not doing anything wrong."

"But they're going *nuts*," she says. "It's like they know I'm getting frustrated, so they misbehave even harder."

Donna laughs and smooths down the side of Cassie's hair. Her thumb traces the curve of Cassie's cheek. "They probably do."

Cassie struggles to sit up. "But that's *stupid*."

"Very stupid," Donna says. "Although they probably --"

"Don't say it." Cassie jerks away, then slumps back. "Don't even say, 'oh, they're boys,' like that's some kind of license to act like a jerk."

When Donna frowns, the skin between her eyebrows puckers up and her eyes darken as her lips go pale. "I wouldn't say that."

Of course she wouldn't. She's far too generous and just plain kind to make excuses like that; Cassie's the asshole here.

She tries to smile at Donna, tries to let it slide. "Sorry, I just --"

Donna shifts around to make room for her. "Why don't you tell me what's bothering you? Really bothering you?"

Cassie can't keep the sulkiness out of her voice as she climbs up next to Donna. "What, I can't be bothered by the guys acting like infantile asses?"

"Of course you can." Donna slips her arm around Cassie's shoulder. "But I suspect you're used to that."

So Cassie curls against Donna, head on her shoulder, and starts with the Robin problem. Whether it started when he unmasked for them, or with this Mr. Sarcastic business, or when he was in utero, she doesn't know. All she knows is that there is a deep, almost perfect weirdness about him that she can't understand, no matter how hard she tries.

"How hard is that?" Donna asks softly.

Cassie swallows the automatic protest and thinks the question through. "Pretty hard? Sometimes, anyway."

It's embarrassing to admit that. Much better to be the frustrated one, the one who has to endure all the bullshit.

She plays with the fringe on the afghan. Donna doesn't chide her, just squeezes her shoulder and pats her hair.

"I don't know," Cassie continues, tightening her fist on the blanket. "But it's not like he's trying *at all* to see where I'm coming from, so --"

Donna's chuckle is rueful and her eyes are sad. "The Bats aren't very good at that."

"What, being human beings?" Cassie asks.

Donna's dimples deepen as she looks away. "I was going to say 'empathy', but..."

There are moments, infrequently but all the more uncomfortable for how rare they are, when Donna seems like a different person. Someone smaller, and much sadder, but, more than any of that, far more *fragile*. Cassie doesn't know what to say.

So she elbows Donna roughly and says as brightly as she can, "At least your Robin's not a freak of nature."

"True." Donna nods, a lock of hair slipping over her face. "He's got his own issues, though."

"Too sexy for his shirt?" Cassie asks and, after a moment, Donna's smile brightens and looks genuine. Cassie smiles back at her. "I thought so."

*

Donna persuades her to go talk to Robin. Cassie suspects that it won't work, but she doesn't know how to say no to Donna. Besides, Donna promises to take care of the permissions with her mother, so even if this doesn't work, at least Cassie doesn't have to go home yet.

She would have flown right into downtown Gotham, but on Donna's advice – "Batman *really* doesn't like anything that can fly," she says, to which Cassie can't help the dumb joke: "Anything not a Bat-plane, batarang, Bat-copter, or Bat-glider, gotcha." – she takes the train instead from Grand Central. It's stupid and inefficient, she thinks. Why pretend to be ordinary when you're not?

She has an overnight bag, one of Donna's credit cards, and a hotel reservation under Drusilla Prince.

The hardest part, it turns out, is finding Robin. And Batman, she supposes, but she dearly hopes they're working separately tonight.

Her phone rings a little past midnight. She has been wandering the downtown core for a few hours, chasing cop sirens and helping lost tourists. She's stopped three muggings and eaten four hot dogs and watched the sky almost constantly, all without any hint of any capes.

Plus, Gotham stinks. Literally. Like pig manure and old seafood and diesel exhaust.

"R. is at Broad Street and Kane," a computerized voice says when Cassie answers the phone.

"Excuse me?"

"I'm sending the coordinates now," it continues.

"Who are you?"

"Oracle," it replies. After a moment, it adds, "Good luck, kiddo."

Great. Gotham is about a hundred times more creepy than she expected, and it isn't as if her expectations were for an Opal City or Fawcett City. Still, she knows how to take care of herself.

When the directions flash onto her YJ wrist-cuff, she follows them.

She finds Robin, bo staff in hand, dispatching several tattooed bikers. There is no sign of Batman; she sighs in relief before wading into the fray.

"I need to talk to you --" She brings down the biggest guy with a sweeping leg kick.

"Busy." Robin spins and clocks a Mohawk'd dude across the bridge of his nose.

Cassie wrestles another. She gets a good grasp on his long gray beard, and tosses him away. "Just hear me out."

"I. Am. Working." Robin's face is hard to read at the best of times; right now, it is still as porcelain and just as hard. He zipcuffs the three on the ground, calls in a report on his comm (to whom, she wonders. The cops? That Oracle computer guy?), snaps down his bo, and stalks off down the alleyway.

"Um, excuse me?" Cassie calls.

"Go after him, honey!" the bearded biker says.

She kind of wants to kick him in the face. She chases after Robin instead.

She catches him climbing a thin cable that looks barely thick enough to support its own weight. He doesn't reply when she says, "Robin. Robin. *Rob*, dude, come on --", so she floats upward as he climbs.

He's got his mouth set in a mean little frown. He won't even look over at her.

"I just need to *talk*," she's saying as he crests the pediment. "About this Mr. Sarcastic thing and --"

"I don't know what you're talking about," he says. He snaps his wrist and the cable zips up into his sleeve. Addressing the dark roof, he says, "Three Gorgons are in custody."

She is about to reach over and shake him, because he's acting like someone in shock. Or like Rain Man. But then she sees the looming shadow in the far corner of the roof.

"Wonder Girl," Batman says.

"Uh." Cassie swallows. "Sir."

*

She might be mouthy (according to her mother), bossy (according to Impulse), even a bitchy bully with no sense of humor whatsoever (Kon), but Cassie can't quite stand up to Batman. Not on his turf, and not when it's about something as nebulous and vague as "Robin's being weird and playing dress-up". A different kind of dress-up, that is.

So she heads back to her hotel room. She takes a shower long enough to both prune-ify her fingertips and scrub off all the Gotham grit and slime, wraps herself up in a towel thicker than some sweaters she has owned, and flops on the big bed to watch a season one episode of Wendy. It's the one where Alexei is scared of mimes and they come after him in droves.

Although she doesn't expect to sleep very well – her annoyance has soured down into pissed-off and fuming, plus mimes are scary, there's no getting around that – she conks out. She wakes up the next morning only because housekeeping is knocking on the door.

She has roughly ten hours before she has to fly back to Gateway City, maybe even twelve if she pushes it. Gotham might stink, but it's better than being in school or stuck at home.

At reception, a message is waiting for her. From Alvin Draper, of all freaking stupid fake names.

"Alvin says he's very sorry about yesterday evening, and if you'd be so kind, he would love to meet you at the Natural History Museum this afternoon."

Nothing can be easy, not even straightforward, when Tim is involved. Would it have been too obvious just to call her? Apparently so.

Diana would say here that she needs to work on letting go and letting be. One cannot remain troubled by what is outside of one's control, something like that.

Cassie suspects that she'd feel differently if she had to deal with Tim.

*

At two-fifteen precisely, as she paces under the enormous whale skeleton suspended from the ceiling of the Gotham Natural History Museum's Martha Wayne Wing, she turns at the end of the informational display and almost steps on Tim's feet in their neat little canvas sneakers.

"Afternoon," he says, polite as anything. He actually looks nice and surprisingly normal in his corduroy pants and cardigan.

"You are such a freak," she starts to say, but he's squinting, looking over her shoulder, and, as he seems to find what he's looking for, he smiles broadly. "What?"

"Ah, here we go." He steps around her, lifting his hand and waving as he calls, "Ariana!"

A dark-haired girl is hurrying towards them across the marble floor. She's really pretty, jangling with a thousand bracelets, her ripped black tights exposing her knees and a glance of her inner thigh under her short skirt.

"I thought we were --" Cassie says.

He glances over sharply and says, quickly and harshly, "I'm Tim, you're you, we met at soccer camp."

Before she can say anything, the girl – Ariana – has made it over and Cassie is distracted by her wide, bright smile and loud voice.

"What a surprise!" Tim is saying and introducing them to each other, "I had no idea you still came here, Ari."

Which is a total lie, and Ariana seems to know as much, as she narrows her eyes briefly at him, then shakes her head, laughing. "You're weirder than ever, buddy."

Tim insists on taking them out for coffee.

In the tiny bistro, he maneuvers so that they end up sharing an overstuffed couch and he perches on the low table in front of them. Cassie knows that he has set this up, from the not-so-chance meeting to the seating arrangements, but she would be hardpressed to diagnose *how* he accomplished any of this.

She isn't exactly giving him all that much thought, though, to be honest. Ariana is the kind of person who fills up your attention in every way. Her eyelashes are long and sooty, the stud in her nose glints blue and green, her laugh is throaty and almost braying, she moves around a lot and keeps knocking into Cassie, then apologizing with a hand on Cassie's that lingers like smoke in the air.

So when Tim stands up, claiming a call from his housekeeper, Cassie isn't surprised.

Ariana, too, seems to have been expecting this: "Someday," she tells him, kneeling on the cushion to hug him and kiss his cheek, "we'll actually get to catch up without you pulling one of your disappearing acts."

He doesn't smile over Ariana's shoulder, just gives Cassie this intent, almost frightening, look. His eyes are slate blue and *flat*. She doesn't know what to do, so she smiles tightly and nods.

She has no idea what she just agreed to, or confirmed, or whatever that was.

"God, he's *insane*," Ariana says, collapsing back next to Cassie and hitching her leg up over the couch's arm. She sips her coffee enthusiastically, then elbows Cassie. "Sorry about that. Really sorry."

"Sorry?" Cassie asks. Now she is really lost.

For one thing, Ariana does not sound apologetic at all.

"You know," Ariana says. She wiggles around until she leans against the arm, tucking her legs behind her, knees resting on Cassie's thigh. "I'm pretty sure he feels...guilty? Or responsible, or something. That's why he pulls shit like this."

That is, Cassie comes to understand, Tim holds himself responsible, whether that's a good or bad thing is unclear, for Ariana preferring girls. Either to make it up to her, or show that he's supportive, or for some other, completely obscure reason, he likes to set her up with girls he thinks she'd like.

"So, yeah," Ariana says. "It's weird, right?"

"It's him," Cassie replies and knocks her shoulder against Ariana's.

Ariana's hair smells like spearmint and Gotham bus fumes. Just now, Cassie doesn't think she's ever smelled anything better.

They just look at each other. When Ariana smiles, the skin over the bridge of her nose crinkles up adorably.

"Usually," Cassie says at last, leaning in a little closer, "right about here, I'd be saying something about how I was getting deja vu and really needed to kiss you."

Ariana laughs and rolls her eyes. "Good line. Unnecessary, but pretty good." She grabs her knapsack and jacket from the floor and jumps to her feet so fast that if Cassie didn't know better, she'd suspect some metahuman speed. "Let's get going."

Cassie doesn't understand why, let alone how, Tim arranges people and meetings and *emotions* as precisely as the curators order the displays in museums.

It's a waste of time, so far as she can tell. Let things happen, speak up for yourself: what's so hard about that?

That's not to say, however, that Tim didn't get her taste almost exactly right. Ariana is small, quick and dark, smart as a whip and *funny*. They end up back at her cousin's apartment, looking out over a scrubby little park. Ariana kisses as hungrily, slurpily, as she drank her coffee. Her hands clutch Cassie's upper arms, slide up and down the muscles, and she laughs, way back in her throat, as they stumble around.

Cassie catches her when she starts to fall; Ariana dips over her forearm like Ginger Rogers, her chest heaving, necklaces sliding off to the side, her breasts straining at the fabric. With a twist of her arm and shift of her stance, Cassie lowers them back onto the futon that serves as a couch.

"God," she says, blinking up as Cassie straddles her lap and works off her shirt. "You're really strong. You work out a lot?"

"Something like that," Cassie says and kisses Ariana's chin, the side of her neck. The way Ariana trembles and squeaks under her mouth does more than anything else to make her forget about Robin, and Mr. Sarcastic, and Tim. Everything else.

Ariana wraps her hands in Cassie's hair, pulling her head this way, then that way, kissing with more teeth than lips, and pretty soon, her hips are canting and pushing up, her tights around one ankle and caught on the top of her Black Spot sneakers. When Cassie cups her mound and spreads her fingers to dig into the moisture there, Ariana shudders from toes to fingertips, curses, and shoves Cassie's head between her legs.

Gotham is turning out way better than she could have dreamed.

*

Cassie is half an hour late getting home. Although she's long past the afterglow, she still feels the traces of fucking Ariana – a bruise on her arm, bite mark on the underside of one breast, aching nipples and a swollen clit – and savors them the way she relishes trembling legs and aching arms after a hard run or long spar. This is how she knows her body is working, that it's exactly what she wants and needs it to be, strong and healthy and *alive*.

But because she was late, her mother restricts "adventuring" for a week.

Cassie has to call Snapper, tell him that the *head* of Young Justice can't come that weekend because Mommy says no. It's not just embarrassing. It's as if her mother wants her to be *ashamed*.

*

Three days into her grounding, an IM pops up on her screen while she's trying to find primary sources for her history paper.

monsieur_sarcastic89 @ AOL: Grounded, huh? ¡Pobrecita! We shall endeavor to push on without you. Don't know how we'll ever manage, of course, but one must make do, mustn't one?  
50ftqueenie @ gatewayantiquities.org: Fuck off.  
monsieur_sarcastic89: is that a request or an offer?  
50ftqueenie: seriously, just – leave me alone.  
monsieur_sarcastic89: no.   
monsieur_sarcastic89: tell me more about fucking off.   
monsieur_sarcastic89: am i on my knees?

Cassie gets the sudden, and vivid, mental image of Tim sitting in front of three or four computer monitors, simultaneously pretending to be different people. On one, he's being Mr. Sarcastic and sexually harassing her, while on another, for all she knows, he's posting the monthly FAQ for his Sherlock Holmes fan club. On another he's doing Anita's math homework or trolling Kon.

And he's paying equal, disinterested attention to all the monitors and nothing matters to him. It's all just an experiment.

She wants to toss her laptop across the room, but she hardly needs more shit from her mom, so she shuts the cover and shoves it under her pillow before she rolls over. It's barely seven pm, but she doesn't have anything to do but sleep.

Six more days before she can go back to work.

*

She cuts last period on Friday and makes for the East Coast like there are demons on her tail.

She even beats Bart and Superboy to the headquarters. Later, she will learn that Bart had briefly joined the glee club while Kon was off in Costa Rica helping clean up flood damage, but for the time being, she intends to enjoy the solitude and get back up to speed.

She organizes her office, swims a hundred laps, sends Snapper out to do the grocery shopping with a thorough list, and ends up in the gym, lazily pedaling an exercise bike while catching up on her reading for history.

"Got sprung? Good behavior?" Mr. Sarcastic is leaning in the doorway, hip cocked, stupid green glasses on his face, smirking at her. He feigns shock by dropping his mouth open and covering it with one hand. "No, wait, how long have you been gone?"

Cassie flips him off.

"What'd you do, anyway? To get locked up?" He straddles a Nautilus machine directly across from her and leans in, the picture of fascination, chin in hand. "Make it interesting. I hate boring stories."

Cassie dismounts the bike and swipes a towel across her face.

Sarcastic whistles. "Such a jock."

She snaps the towel at him as she passes. She's not going to say anything, she's not going to give him the satisfaction.

Not even when he follows her, crowding her, asking over and over, "What'd you do? What'd you do? C'mon, we're all friends here, you can tell *me*..."

At the door to the girl's locker room, she whirls around.

Sarcastic takes a step back, saying, "oooh..." in mock-fear.

"What do you think you're doing?" Cassie asks. Her pulse pounds behind her sinuses and it's hard to see, hard to think. "What the *hell* are you doing?"

He shrugs lazily as he examines his fingernails. "Don't know what you mean."

She remembers just in time that there are those stupid cameras everywhere in the public areas. She grabs Sarcastic's wrist and yanks him into the girl's locker room.

"Hallelujah," he crows, "the promised land! Next stop, the dorm and pillow fights!"

Cassie pushes him down onto the nearest bench. "What is *wrong* with you?"

He crosses his legs and rubs his bald skull. She wonders distractedly whether he really shaved his head or if that's a wig of some kind.

"Take off those glasses, *god*," she adds, and he purses his lips, as if he's thinking about a retort. Eventually, he unsnaps the band and, after spinning the goggles a couple times on his finger, lets them fly off to the side.

"Better?"

"Not really," she says. "Seriously, what are you *doing*?"

"Getting chewed out," he replies, then cocks his head, looking at her. "Not in the good way, though."

She would really, dearly, like to slap him. So she crosses her arms over her chest and takes a step back. "You're dressing up, playing these ridiculous games, you look like --"

"At least my goggles fit," he says, "and I'm not wearing some ratty black wig."

"Ha fucking ha," she says. "I didn't know what I was doing."

He leans back on the bench, looking for all the world like he's on a pier or something, soaking up the sun and dangling his toes in the water. "But now, of course, you're past all that."

She knows that she can't let him get to her. She especially should not let on how *confused* she feels, confused and frustrated and all-around pissed off.

But she can't help saying, "What's that supposed to mean?"

He shrugs and looks away. "Just what I said. I'm not the only one who --"

"Dresses up like Bono went and joined the Backstreet Boys?"

He half-smiles, all teeth and no joy. "It's hard, you know. Keeping secrets. You don't know what it's like. You get to be yourself all the time. But you used to know. You used to be in disguise."

His voice is soft, his eyes lowered. For a moment, she almost falls for it.

She almost says, "Oh, I didn't mean..." and "I'm sorry" and all of that. But then he looks at her, gives her that weird, intent look he gave her in the coffee shop, and she stops herself. She resists the sympathy.

"I got grounded because I was late coming home," she says. "My mother was waiting for me on the roof. *You* don't know what it's like."

He opens his mouth so she raises her voice.

"Maybe keeping secrets is easier. It sounds a hell of a lot better than what I have to do, you know? You don't have to worry about your parents coming down on you, because they don't know. Lucky them. Lucky you."

"Dad," he says. "Just my dad."

She stops short. She'd been pacing, counting off the words as they echoed against the tiles. "What?"

"There's no such thing as 'my parents'. Just my dad."

The heat on her face splutters and spits like oil on a flame. "That's really not the point, Rob!"

He nods quickly and maybe he's sorry. He *looks* sorry, but she can't trust him. She turns, paces the length of the room again, and ends up in front of him, looming over him. He looks up at her, wide, unreadable eyes and pale face.

"What do you *want*?" Cassie asks.

He shakes his head.

"Tell me," she says and her hands are on his shoulders. He's ropes of muscle and sharp bones and soft skin, fake tattoos and smears of kohl around his eyes. She's seeing things in pieces, like the ingredients in a kaleidoscope, minute details and fragments of things. Her breath comes hard, her grip tightens a little until he winces, and she feels her cunt throb in response. She bears down, kegel-style, and loosens her grip slightly. "Come on, you can tell me."

When he swallows, his Adam's apple looks as sharp as the bones under her hand.

"Tell me," she says and drops down to squat between his legs. She squeezes again and hears him breathing. "Tell me what you want."

She might be floating, were it not for her skin tethering her in place. Every sound – breath, words, squeak of sneaker – is fractionally louder than it should be. His eyes are brighter, her skin is tighter. Sweat spangles the tip of his nose.

"Tell me."

His teeth are fang-pointed and white when he licks his lips. "Make me."

Cassie sucks in a breath. She squeezes down and his head tips back, and when his mouth opens like a baby bird's, she finally understands.

He isn't challenging her, or simply being obnoxious. That was a plea.

He can't help it. He can't help any of this.

He's asking her. He's asking her for help and – something else. She's not sure yet what it is, but she's closer to understanding than ever.

"Take off that shirt," she says and steps back. It is an ugly mesh thing, rough to the touch, unflattering on anyone.

He moves slowly to comply, like he's caught in jelly or an undertow, but he does do as she says.

And then he's sitting there, round-shouldered and slumping, his skinny torso wrinkling up. He reaches for a towel and starts to scrub his face.

"Leave it on," she says, and means the kohl. "It looks good."

Even though the towel covers his mouth, she can tell he smiles. His eyes crinkle up and his posture straightens.

When she steps back within reach, he goes still.

She flicks the ring in his nipple. She'd assumed that it would snap off, but he hisses in a breath and the ring moves as his nipple tightens. She tries it again. "This is real?"

"Verisimilitude," he answers after a moment.

Cassie shakes her head. "Wow."

"What are you *doing*?" Greta's voice bounces off the tile walls and the cold, clammy breeze of her presence hits Cassie like a tidal wave.

Cassie scrambles to her feet, hands up like she's surrendering. "We were just --"

Sarcastic winks at Greta as he wraps his cape around his bare torso. "Wonder Girl can't keep her hands to herself."

He leaves them then. Greta stares at Cassie with welling eyes and trembling lip and Cassie tries to explain.

There's nothing she can say that will make any sense.

"Please don't --" Cassie says. Greta floats away through the nearest vent.

When the alarm rings for "local emergency", she is relieved as much as she is startled.

*

Word travels quickly; Greta makes sure of that. For someone with her codename, she's hopeless with anything remotely secret. There they are in downtown Scranton, battling a series of zombies emerging from the Houdini Museum, and every single member of Young Justice has something to say.

They're way more interested in the gossip than killing zombies.

"You need to learn boundaries," Anita tells Mr. Sarcastic as she vaults over him, somersaults, and does a sweep of her staff to knock two zombies down.

"I don't think it's technically incest --" Impulse slows down long enough to be heard, speeds up again, then returns to add, "but it's probably not the greatest idea for morale. Also, gross! Really gross!"

Bart thinks Spin-the-Bottle is gross, so his opinion isn't exactly germane.

"Hell, go for it." Slo-bo beheads one of Anita's fallen zombies, then tosses the head back and forth between his palms like a soccer ball. "Fly your freak flags, I always say."

"I'll stick close, don't worry," Kon tells Cassie as they work, back to back, picking off the last few stumbling stragglers. "He won't be able to get through me, just watch."

"Don't think that'd bother him," she says. Kon blinks and tilts his head. She doesn't have time to explain, either, as a zombie dragging heavy chains starts to make for Mr. Sarcastic.

Before she reaches them, Tim neatly sidesteps the zombie and brings it down with a well-tossed batarang.

It says something about the effect he's having on her, she thinks, that she finds his use of Robin's weapon while playing Mr. Sarcastic to be messy. Lazy, even.

She shakes her head to try to clear the crazy.

"Well," he says, the smirk back in place. "It's been absolutely *lovely* tussling with you all and getting sweaty with the erotic banter, but I really must be going."

He disappears behind the museum building, and Slo-bo and Anita follow.

Cassie and Bart are left to clean up the dead (again) zombies. Kon is putting the moves on a lady landscaper who'd been hiding in the bushes. He uses his TTK to pluck leaves and twigs from her hair.

When the cops come to take statements, she sends Bart home before he can elaborate on his initial impressions. "We weren't really working 100% because Wonder Girl and Robin are getting mixed up together and it's really not good for morale, don't you think? Besides, they can both do a lot better --"

She kicks a zombie head; it thunks against a tree trunk and she starts to feel a little better.

*

She should have known that nothing is ever over, not when Tim is involved.

The following Wednesday, she has been home from school for barely half an hour when her police alarm rings. She flies to Gateway Park, right on the bay, where the sea lions flop against each other and massive gulls divebomb toddlers for their popcorn.

On the grounds of the old Jesuit mission, she finds a small knot of cops and onlookers around an old stone well.

"Guy down there," the sergeant tells her. "Says he knows you."

Her sinuses throb with stress. "Bald, lots of tattoos?"

The cop shrugs. "Kind of faggy, yeah."

She scowls. "Really? You think that's appropriate?"

He scratches the back of his neck. "Look, missy. You wanna rescue your fancy little friend or what? This whole place's some kind of historical landmark, so without you, he's stuck down there. Nothing doing."

She doesn't bother replying. She hovers over the well, gauging its width, then drops down, slowly, feet-first. The darkness closes around her, the air becoming colder and sea-salty the further down she goes.

"My hero," he crows when she brushes past him, her toes grazing the muck. "So big and brawny and *strong*!"

"Seriously?" she whispers as she wraps one arm around his waist. "You could have just called."

He grins; she can't quite see his expression, but there's something about the way the planes change in his face, the way his skin feels against her neck, that tells her he's grinning.

She is learning to read him. That fact isn't exactly a happy one.

Tim loops his arms around her neck. Cassie rises about a foot and a half and then something tugs them to a stop.

"My cape's caught," he says. His voice is light and mocking. "Fix it?"

"Just take it off."

"But I'd be *naked* without it!"

"You want to get out of here?" She loosens her hold, lets him slip downward. "Or you want your cape?"

He twists awkwardly, unsnapping the cape, and they rise again, fast enough that she gets a headrush.

"You want we should bring him in?" the younger cop asks as Cassie sets him down.

He stumbles a little, blinking hard. He's faking, she knows, but he's convincing to the untrained eye.

"No, he's cool," she says.

He holds out his hand. On his pinky, there is a giant signet ring, loaded with enough bling to dazzle Catwoman. "Young Justice ring. Told you I was on the team."

The older cop snorts. "Standards sure're crashing these days."

"He's on TV!" one of the little kids playing on the lawn says and points at Tim, who hands her a dirty Whiffle ball.

"He got your ball?" Cassie asks the kid.

She nods enthusiastically, her little braids clattering against her neck. "He's *funny*."

"Yeah," Cassie says, and wraps her arm around Tim's waist again. She rises into the air abruptly and he flattens himself against her. "He sure is."

*

He stinks of stagnant well water, so when they reach her apartment, Cassie sends him off to the shower. She tosses his stupid costume in the washing machine, leaves him towels and a pair of yoga pants on the sink, and calls her mother to report in.

"It's just Robin," she says. "He had an accident, I'm letting him clean up here."

Her mother is, as usual, distracted by work. "That's fine. Why don't you give him dinner? Order in. Jason and I are going out tonight."

"Um, okay?" Cassie frowns at her reflection in the refrigerator door. Since when is she allowed to have friends over unsupervised? Let alone a *guy* friend? "I will. You sure?"

"Cassandra, I'll see you in the morning," her mother says, just as briskly as she'd dismiss a dense research assistant or a barista who made a mistake. "Be good."

She uses the shower off her mother's room and when she's finished, she finds Tim in her room. He's going through her stuff.

He might be scrubbed clean, wearing only Cissie's yoga pants rolled at the waist, bare foot and pink-cheeked, but he seems to be determined to stay Mr. Sarcastic. He doesn't move when she catches him with his hand in her desk drawer, except to grin at her.

"You've got some great toys," he says.

On her bed, he has scattered the three vibrators she keeps hidden under her mattress, the sample bottle of lubricant that the lady at Good Vibrations pressed into her hand when she and Cissie snuck in, even the box of condoms and baggie of gloves from the back of her closet.

She's not going to smack him. She crosses her arms and says as evenly as she can, "Pays to be prepared."

"Hmm," he says and steps in front of her. He's got an erection; it's obvious under the stretchy fabric. She can see the licks of hair curling up to his belly button, the scars on his chest. That stupid nipple ring that she can't stop thinking about. "Is that it?"

"What're you doing?" she asks. "This is – this game is getting kind of boring."

He cocks his head and looks down. The wet hair curving behind his ear, the pale expanse of his neck, the fullness of his lashes: she can't help but appreciate them.

It's not just that he's attractive. It's that he's waiting for her to do something. He *wants* her to do something.

He wants her to do something to him. Make him.

Cassie exhales hard and has to focus on keeping both feet on the ground. Her hands feel like they might float off her wrists.

He might be doing another one of his experiments; she has no way of knowing. He likes to break things up, examine them like the world could fit under his microscope, be different people, say contradicting things.

She might well be one more test.

But if the lab rat wants to run the maze, it's not exactly a test any more. At least, it's a different kind of experiment.

Cassie puts her hands on his shoulders, rolls the joints under her palms. His skin is really soft. "Look at me."

He doesn't say anything. He doesn't look at her, either.

Make me, she hears from the back of her mind.

Her hands move up his throat, tighten a little until his breathing changes, and then she cups his cheeks and tips back his head. Until he has to look at her, and his lips part.

She kisses him, walking them forward until he hits the edge of her bed. She keeps moving, pushing him onto his back, climbing on him, kissing him.

He kisses her back; he closes his arms around her waist like he's scared of falling, and he hangs on tight, and kisses her like he's never done it before. She kisses him for a long, long time. Her head swims, her vision narrows, her body throbs and pushes against his. His hands are in her hair, her tongue is in his mouth, and he swallows and whimpers raggedly.

The first time she flew, she had no idea what she was doing. All the same, her body bent and turned as if it had been waiting her whole life to enter its true element. She became herself in the air; all the more when Zeus granted her boon.

She can't imagine, now, being earthbound.

She can't imagine *not* doing this, running her hands and nails over Tim's chest, watching his skin blush, and goosebumps prickle up, making all of this happen, making him pant and twist toward her touch.

When she sits back on her heels and pushes him up the bed, he catches her hands with his own. His voice is blurred and breathless. "What are you...? What are you going to do?"

She pulls one hand free and cups his erection, then pushes his knees up until his feet are flat on the mattress before her. "Oh, man," she says, and rocks against the building tension in her cunt and across her breasts. "Oh, I'm going to fuck you *dead*."

"Christ. Please." The whites of his eyes show, then his head falls back. Snapped dandelions, broken twigs.

She runs her palms up his legs, through the hair, over his bony knees, around the sturdy muscles of his thighs. He's gasping up at the ceiling, mouth working like a fish, bubbles of spit catching in the corners of his lips. When she pushes open his legs further, he lifts his ass without being asked. His buttocks clench, then smooth, under her touch.

His hand rises into view, fingers waving, then starts to drop back down.

"Go ahead," she says as she leans in, and he jerks side to side when she licks down his sac, through the hair, backward. "Touch yourself, it's okay."

He tastes *good*. Sweaty and soapy, rough hair that goes silky under her tongue, soft skin that reddens and warms. He grasps his dick while she licks back, and back, and when she darts her tongue into his crack, he thrusts upward and she holds him there. One foot braced on her shoulder, he pushes and falls as she licks deeper, swirling into the dark crack, pushing her lips against the pucker of his hole.

He isn't speaking, but his breath and the rapid, uncoordinated movements say everything.

Cassie sinks into that blissful, timeless space where her body moves – tastes and probes, pushes and swirls – without any thought intruding. At one point, he croaks a warning, she ignores it, and pushes her face deeper as he comes above her. Some lands on her shoulder; she ignores it.

When she's ready, when he's starting to babble and his movements have become more liquid, more *undulating*, she replaces her tongue with her thumb and presses it against the crinkled, silky skin of his hole.

"Lube," she says and he looks up at her, wild-eyed and uncomprehending. She repeats the request and, slowly, he scrabbles to find the bottle. She slides on a glove and feels him watching, feels the superstition and magical thinking heavy in his gaze: if he looks away, she'll disappear.

When she works in her finger, he falls back all over again. His hips rise off the mattress and his fists grab the sheet.

Inside, he is velvet-soft, hotter than the sea, tighter than anything. She tells him, she says, "You feel good" and "So tight" and her voice is froggy.

She coughs and clears her throat. "Take it."

After a moment, he whines in response. He sucks for breath and fucks himself downward on her hand. She wiggles a little back to get a better view, her free hand roaming over her breasts, pushing between her legs, moving back upward. He meets her gaze, the proportions of his face distorted, his eyes slitted and cheeks red, his chin sharp, and moves faster against her own thrusts.

She has three fingers wrapped around each other inside him, crushed by the pressure there. Each small movement, even a heartbeat rattle, twists another moan and spasm from him. He grows hard again, his dick the angry color of a new bruise, then loses the erection, only to get half-hard, then fully erect, all over again.

He tries to touch himself; his fingers skitter away as if they've been burned.

"Do it," she says, and leans in, breathes on the shining wet head of his cock, then twists her fingers abruptly. He yowls, bites off the noise, and closes his eyes as he complies. "Look at me."

He does, eventually, though it's hard to tell how much he can see. His lashes are wet, curved like daggers, his lips dry. He jerks himself with a loose grip.

Cassie rocks in time with his motion, squeezing her ass and cunt until it's hard to breathe, letting her hand inside him get dragged along. Spread out before her, he looks like a broken paper doll, limbs akimbo, white and red blotched skin, dark face and darker cock.

"I'm gonna – can I –?" he asks and bites his lip.

"Do it," she says. She wraps her free hand around his dick as he shudders upward, wheezing and whining, to come again. The orgasm nearly shoves her fingers out of him. He flops aside and she lies atop him, letting his breathing return before she starts to work her hand out.

Beneath her, he is loose-limbed and sticky with sweat, turning in her arms, tucking himself against her as if they're about to take flight. Cassie stretches, unable to ignore the ache between her legs, across her body. She waits as long as she can, while he shivers and then stills.

She must have dozed, because she wakes abruptly, one arm gone numb under their combined weight and her mouth dry and foul-tasting. She's so horny, her *elbows* want to fuck.

"Hey," she says. As Tim stirs, she rocks her hips against him. "Let's see about returning the favor."

He glances down, then back up. "I don't think I –. Really sore." He coughs and shifts away. "Probably not getting it back up. Not any time soon."

Cassie rolls him over and straddles his thighs. She's so wet, she can feel it stretch and stick as her legs part. "So, what? Your mouth and hands are broken now, too?"

Tim squeezes his eyes shut. "Guess not, no."

She strips off the glove and grasps his wrist. When she guides his hand over her mound and rubs herself against his palm, his eyes flutter open. There's that flat, illegible gaze again, paired now with a faint smile, just the twitch of his lips. She stares back at him and grinds down, pendulum-swinging her hips, then tilting to catch her clit between his thumb and index finger.

"Harder," she tells him, hands on her breasts, kneading and twisting, and lets her head fall back as she rides his hand. "More, *c'mon*."

He clears his throat and she drops down hard to catch his hand in place.

"Inside," she says and rakes her nails across her nipples. When he slides one finger in, she shakes her head. "More."

He shifts under her, his body heat radiating upward, as she screws herself *down*, onto his hand, wishing for more. She could take his fist, she could take it up front and up her ass, she wants every hole filled and stretched tight, her mouth open to the skies, her body straining.

She can't hear, or see, very much at all, but she's getting *so close*, close enough that the orgasm's clenches are just out of reach, close enough that she needs *more*, and tells him so, falls over him to raise her ass in the air so he can slap it.

She needs even more, she needs the stratosphere and superhuman strength, she needs more than anyone else can give her. She wants to *take* it all and screw herself empty on him, come in a gush and soak him to the bone, close her teeth in his neck and scour herself raw.

She rolls her forehead against his chest and strains to come, panting hard and gnawing at his nipple. The sting of his slap resounds through her. Cassie flies, sees clouds streaking past and fires on the horizon.

Her orgasm hits, reverberates, wrings her open and gasping.

He watches her the entire time with wide eyes and held breath.

*

"How're you getting back?" she asks when the pizza they ordered is gone. She had three slices for each one he ate. Tim has a hickey on his chest shaped like Rhode Island and she wants to pinch it, just to see him react. She pours herself the last of the Coke instead. "Wait, how did you *get* here?"

"Nightwing," he says.

"So he's picking you up?"

Tim shakes his head and dabs his lips with the corner of his napkin. He ate his pizza with knife and fork; she half-expected him to take out a protractor to cut the angles just right. "He was going to Star City."

"So..." Cassie rolls her neck until it pops. Tim winces at the sound and she kicks him. "You want a ride home, is that it?"

He sets down his plate and finishes his drink. "Yes, please," he says, like a little kid at church. "Thank you."

They don't talk much after that. To be fair, they haven't exactly talked much the rest of their time together, either. She hopes he isn't uncomfortable; she just doesn't have much to say. They both aimlessly orbit the room, picking up stray socks, putting away condoms and lube, gently bumping into each other like pearls of tapioca at the bottom of bubble tea.

"You okay?" she asks. He doesn't reply, just lifts his shoulders and turns away. She'll assume that's a yes.

His Sarcastic costume emerges in a sticky, melted pile from the dryer. Apparently you can't tumble-dry naugahyde: she had no idea. So she loans him pants and a shirt, an old pair of sneakers. He accepts them wordlessly.

Her clothes look strange on him. They fit him, so that isn't the strange thing (though it is odd and kind of endearing). It's more the different, longer lines of his body, the neat way he tucks and moves, the sharp, clean angles of his shoulders and jaw and hands. His shoulders are broader than hers, so the shirt stretches, but his waist and hips are narrower, so the fabric puddles. It's like a funhouse mirror.

She thinks about the fact that two hours ago, she had her hand inside him and come on her skin, and she feels naked and overheated all over again.

"What?" he asks and smooths his hand over the back of his hair.

Cassie grins and tosses him a hooded sweatshirt. "Zip up, okay? It gets cold up there."

"Got it, boss."

When he shrugs the sweatshirt on, ducking his head into the hood, she punches his arm. "I'm serious."

He makes a show of working the zipper upward. "So am I."

Cassie rolls her eyes, plants her foot on the windowsill, and pats her thigh like she's calling a dog. "Let's get going."

He winces when he wraps his legs around her, and she pecks his cheek as they take to the air. She made him sore; he bears her bruises, she made him come. Twice. The sensation is amazing. She feels silly, almost, certainly loose, and *quiet*. When he's not playing Sarcastic, Tim is, she suspects, pretty quiet himself; not Robin's intense silence, but simply quiet.

She's fooled around six ways to Sunday with him, but she doesn't know if he's a quiet person. She should feel weird about that, at least concerned, but knowing him is out of her hands.

The flight to Gotham passes quickly. Coldly, but quickly.

She drops him off on a rooftop that looks, to her, like all the others. But it must mean something to him.

His face is in shadow as he unzips the hoodie and pulls it off. When he hands it to her, she gets the urge to mess up his hair more than it already is. She resists the impulse, but when he turns to go without saying anything, Cassie catches his hand and pulls him back.

She noogies him with her free hand. "See you on Saturday?"

Tim's eyes track back and forth, dark fish in a still pond. "Yes, of course."

He disappears down a fire escape, pale frowning brown and spiky hair the last thing she sees.

She kicks the gravel and sticks her hands into the sweatshirt's front pocket. She's hungry all over again.

Bottomless pit, that's what she is.

*

A few blocks away, she finds the Dnipro Diner, all lemon-yellow tile and bright aluminum siding. There are as many people inside now, well past midnight, as there would be in any other restaurant for Sunday brunch. Cassie takes a small booth at the back, orders a large platter of pelmeni, fat meat dumplings swimming in sour cream and butter, and treats herself to a cup of coffee.

Her waitress looks to be barely out of high school. Her red hair escapes the countless bobby pins and she smiles like her heart is breaking.

"Pie?" she asks when Cassie is finished and asks for a refill on coffee. "I'm on break soon, so let me know."

It's warm in here, bright and cheery. She doesn't have to be back home for hours, if her mother keeps to form and stays the night at Jason's.

So Cassie asks for pie, and when the waitress brings it, catches her hand and asks her to share it with her.

"It's the weirdest thing," she says a little later, when the cherry pie is long gone and Lidia has let her hair down and is leaning against the wall, her uniform blouse gaping a little over her breasts when she laughs. "I'm getting the strongest sense of deja vu, like I *have* to kiss you."

Lidia's lips curve up. "You're a joker."

"I know." Cassie leans in close enough to see the down of hair over Lidia's lip. "I'm a lot of things."

 

 

[end]


End file.
